


Diamonds And Rust

by CalamityCain



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Crossover, F/M, Love Triangles, M/M, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years ago Tony Stark's life was changed forever. Since then he's reshaped his name and reputation to become a legend among men - fabulously, mysteriously rich, with a manor that hosts the most lavish parties this side of New York. But he wants only one thing. And that is the love of the elusive, now-married Loki Odinson.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>[A Great Gatsby crossover AU]</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

> _Here comes your ghost again_  
>  _But that's not unusual_  
>  _It's just that the moon is full,_  
>  _And you happened to call_  
>  _And here I sit_  
>  _Hand on the telephone_  
>  _Hearing a voice I'd known_  
>  _A couple of light years ago,_  
>  _Heading straight for a fall_
> 
> _We both know what_
> 
> _memories can bring:_  
>  _They bring diamonds and rust_
> 
> _Well, you burst on the scene_  
>  _Already a legend;_  
>  _The unwashed phenomenon,_  
>  _The original vagabond_  
>  _You strayed into my arms_  
>  _And there you stayed._
> 
> _Now you're telling me_
> 
> _You're not nostalgic;_  
>  _Then give me another word for it,_  
>  _You who are so good with words_  
>  _And at keeping things vague._  
> 
> 
> _It's all come back too clearly_  
>  _Yes, I loved you dearly_  
>  _And if you're offering_
> 
> _me diamonds and rust,_
> 
> _I've already paid._

 

> Diamonds And Rust © Joan Baez (1975) _  
> _

_~  
_

 

 

TONY

I watch the horizon for you. Every night, I gaze across the lake and picture the day when you waltz into my life again. These parties – these glitter-festooned obscenities – they mean nothing to me. I throw them for you, and only you. Waiting, hoping that among these laughing faces and glib revellers you will appear, like a dream I’ve dreamt a thousand times.

Until you do, I am doomed to stand here frozen in time.

A woman spills champagne on my arm. She apologizes without knowing who I am. It is a beautiful, careless moment. And in a blink it is over. This is what I love about a party of such scale. I don’t like small parties at all. Their very smallness is stifling, like awkward silence in a tearoom at the height of a humid summer. Surrounded by a crowd, I can remain anonymous. I can mingle and exchange throwaway witticisms over a drink.

Or I can stand above it all by the window, and watch the lake, and wait.

I have waited for four years. Today will be the first day of the fifth.

Will this be the only way I can live in your arms again? Am I doomed to beat on, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past?

 

 

~

 

STEVE

His voice is a cool susurrus in the heat of noon, each velvety utterance like a mouthful of smoke that turns the most mundane words into pearls of louche wisdom. Long pale limbs and ink-black hair spill with calculated carelessness onto white leather sofas as if he was made specifically for such things. Yet for all his calculation, there is a fragility about him – the quirk of soft lips, a sudden vulnerability that slides in and out of sharp green eyes.

Loki Odinson. The most dazzling creature to ever glide through lofty hallways in crisp rayon and silk cravats, clove cigarette dangling from one hand.

And what am I beside this urbane feline of a man, but a boy bumpkin fresh from stepping off a long train ride in painfully new loafers? Out of place and out of rhythm. The servants step around me like trained dancers as they serve Riesling on ice and lower the shutters and adjust the curtains, setting the scene for a nonchalant afternoon that is still far fancier than anything I’ve ever experienced. Then they disappear just as discreetly. Their ebony faces are impassive and beautiful to me. There are no coloured folks where I’m from.

The living room quiet once more, I turn back to him. “It’s good to see you again, Loki.”

He smiles and reaches out a hand to me from where he sits half-sprawled across the couch (white, as I knew it would be). “Take me dancing.”

I laugh. “I would, if you were my lady.”

“And do you have one?”

“I’m afraid not. Not at the moment.”

 “Then I suggest you take what you can get, Rogers. You’ll find Loki’s prowess on the dance floor most satisfactory.” This is uttered by another voice – a more feminine one, and warmer by just a few degrees. The head from which it came rises just enough to arch an eyebrow at me.

It is Tasha – Natasha Romanova to strangers. An elegant auburnette with a way of moving that made me think of liquid steel: fluid, lithe, indestructible. When I was younger she had terrified me. Even now I can’t think of a more intimidating golf player; in fact for a brief time, I was intensely attracted to her simply for the way she swung a four-iron.

She and Loki had been deadly foes when they first met. Now they were tentative companions, stepping lightly over each other’s egos over tea and bourbon. Their game of silk and daggers was not for one as unrefined as myself. I'm about to reply when a booming voice breaks through the ethereal lull.

“Loki; Tasha! Ready to hit town? The car’s waiti – _Steve!”_

A hand slaps my back and knocks the wind from my left lung. “How do you fare, old boy?” Then I am pulled into a bear hug and urged to have a glass of wine and put my arduous journey behind me. Thor Odinson is a force of nature: blond, burly, resolutely tanned, the polar opposite of his beloved Loki. The latter smiles and lets himself be pulled into an embrace that threatens to rumple his immaculate dove-grey jacket.

I notice that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I blame the Lana Del Rey song ( **Young & Beautiful,** from The Great Gatsby soundtrack) for inspiring most of this venture. The last bit of this chapter makes it especially apparent, I guess_

 

 

NATASHA

 

We drive to the heart of New York. It’s not dark yet, but already the city beckons with a strange glitter. I glance at Steve through our cigarette smoke and wonder if he finds it all rather surreal. 

More likely he is absorbed in Loki Odinson’s legendary charm. I am too close for comfort now to feel much attraction, but there was a time when – like most other girls – I’d have given an arm and a kidney to slip past that tailored waistcoat and feel those graceful hands on places I barely touch myself.

In some ways, he is spoilt. Once the lover of the great and mysterious Anthony Stark of Stark Manor across the lake, now wed to Thor who came from old money and the Yale alumni. Thor, who all but offered the world to him on a silver tray even as he fucked his Long Island mistress during extended business trips. I wondered if Loki knew about Ms Long Island, and more importantly, if he cared.

A good man like Steve Rogers had no place in the picture. But of course he would edge in nonetheless; not on purpose, but in a daze, like the proverbial flame-lusting moth. It could all be potentially rather tragic. 

To distract him, I ask about his writing career. “It’s going alright,” he said modestly. “But I’m in bonds now.” 

“So’s anyone with half a brain.” I poke him in the ribs. “I hope you don’t give up the pen entirely. You’re far too good at it.” 

He chuckles. “I haven’t put it down actually. Though lately it’s spilt more figures than prose.”

“That’s a shame,” Loki drawls. “Of all the half-assed unemployed romantics I’ve met calling themselves poets, you’re the only one who isn’t a complete joke.”

“That’s Loki’s idea of a compliment.” I roll my eyes.

“Oh come on, now! Boy wants to strike while the iron is hot…nothing wrong with riding opportunity. Isn’t that right, Rogers?” Thor grins like the buffoon he is. Steve responds with a naïve smile. But too soon his eyes slide back to feast on Loki’s radiance. 

I sigh and lean back as we journey on. The wind tugging at my scarf leaves a trail of dust in its wake, carrying us where it may.

 

 

~

 

TONY

 

The gilt-edged invitation is scalloped at the corners and leaves a faint scent on my fingers. Come to think of it, these cards are rather too feminine. I only bought them because the perfume reminded me of – 

_of how his hair smelt when he came in from the rain or when it was freshly washed, pressing against your cheek as you try to steal the elusive kiss at the corner of his mouth and chase him through the living room until finally you corner him against the same wall where you made love yesterday –_

 I push the card into an envelope and have it delivered to Mr Rogers’ mailbox.

Ten minutes later I wonder if I should have added a personal note. But I barely knew the man. And what would I say? Was there a proper, socially acceptable way to request of Mr Rogers what I intended to request?

Will it bring you to my doorstep at long last?

And what would I say to you? Something stupid, like “Will you still –

_– love me when I’m no longer beautiful?” he asked, running a finger down your hip as his milky thigh presses against it, then stealing the answer with a cool kiss that turns hot when you slip inside him and he moans long and loud like a melody that never ends –_

From the window I see Steve get down from the car and to Miss Romanova (who is as cool and gorgeous as ever) before entering his cottage. Shortly after she and the Odinsons pull away, the cottage lights go out. There are days when I wish I am in his place. Those who live only one life – one forthright, linear life that makes sense when you look back on it – may be deemed less fascinating. But they are also far, far luckier. And no doubt happier.

Goodnight till we meet, Steve Rogers. I pray it will be soon.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for a few inconsistencies in past & present tense in the last 2 chapters that I've now amended.

 

STEVE

I have never met the mysterious personage known as Stark, but he has intrigued me from the moment I saw the first light in the window of the manor just a stone’s throw from my rented house. And now I hold a handwritten invitation from the man himself. A delicate gilt-edged thing I surely had no business to be holding – for who am I that Tony Stark would address me by name, in graceful strokes he had inked himself (or had a butler done it?) , inviting me to a gala on Thursday night?

Would I be going? Of course I would.

I have no idea of its true value, however, until I show it to Tasha. Her eyes go very wide and she looks at me with something like newfound respect.

“No one ever gets personally invited to a Stark party,” she says. “People just…turn up.”

“Turn up?”

“Yes. On the night of every gala, the house and its grounds are open to whoever wishes to waltz in. All the beautiful people are there, of course – but commoners and nameless folk are treated no less well. One great thing about these events is that everyone is equal. And trust me – ” she chuckled – “after a whole bottle of champagne, everyone is.”

For some reason this makes me even more nervous. “You _will_ join me, won’t you?” I ask. “I’m in desperate need of your sophistication.”

“Of course!” Her eyes dance in her cool pointed face. “Besides, I heard it’s a masquerade!”

 

 

A masquerade. Perhaps I should have known better than to accept. The whirlwind of velvet faces and painted lips make my head spin. To embolden myself, I down two glasses of champagne consecutively. Out of place as I felt, I know I won’t be going anywhere until I get a glimpse of the famous Mr Stark.

If only I knew how he looks like! I turn to ask Tasha – but she has already disappeared into the sea of masks, a sleek, bare-shouldered panther slicing through the glitter and chaos. I ascend the grand staircase where I all but slam into a troupe of scantily-clad harlequin dancers. As I’m still reeling from the accident, smudges of glitter on my sleeve, I see him.

Loki. Dressed impeccably in close-cut black, accentuated with a deep green scarf trimmed with gold that matches the gold of his horned mask. He is chatting – no, arguing – with a man in a pink suit whose back was turned to me. It seems pink suits are the order of the day; as are pale blue and lavender. No longer considered effeminate, pastel are now the height of masculine fashion. It makes Loki stand out even more.

As he turns away, I see a glimmer of tears lining his face; but then his eyes meet mine, and I realise it’s a trick of the light. The thin lips quiver just a little before it freezes in a sneer. His eyes gleam dangerously. He storms off and melts into the masses. It is the last I see of him for the night.

I feel the invitation card in my right jacket pocket, wondering why I’d brought it. I suddenly want to wave it wildly in the air and yell Stark’s name until he materializes. I want to ask him the meaning of this, and of the grand drunken affairs he hosts with alarming regularity. I want –

Someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around, and my search comes to an end.

“Hello, Mr Rogers,” says the pink-suited man Loki had been conversing with. “I’m Tony. It’s a pleasure to finally shake your hand.”

 

 

TONY

His lack of composure is utterly charming. Were my heart not so completely devoured, I might have taken to this fresh-faced man who seemed a boy still. His mask is a simple white domino, which he removes as he tries to simultaneously shake my hand and bow.

“Oh please, old sport! I’ll not be treated with stiff decorum in my bloody house.” I clap him on the back and beckon a waiter. “Champagne?”  
  
“No thanks; I’ve had quite enough.”

“Well, then. Why not let me show you around?” I guided him away from the throng of raucous revellers. “By the way, how is Natasha?”

“Oh, you know her?”

“Not intimately. But we have spoken on a few occasions. She’s one of the best golfers I know. And I’m pretty damn good at golf, if I do say so myself.”

Just then Natasha turns up at his side. “Speak of the devil,” I exclaim. “Lucifer herself; as radiant as ever. Morning star of my heart.”

She throws me a cat-eyed look. “Same old Anthony Stark.” Then she turns to Steve, her smile fading. “Loki’s in a right state. Did you see him?”

“I – yes, just…just for awhile. Did he – ”

“He wouldn’t talk to me at all. Just upped and left. And, Steve, he took the car.”

Worry grips my lungs and squeezes. “Not to worry, Natasha. I’ll have my driver take you home when you’re ready.”

“It’s not that I’m concerned about, Tony. He’d been drinking; I could smell bourbon on him from six feet away. And the look in his eyes…”

I feel my face fall as cold sweat prickles the back of my neck. Steve’s guileless eyes mirrors my anxiety.

“Do you think he headed home or...?”

Natasha bites her lip. “He could be anywhere. But we could check.”

Steve nods. “Let’s go, then.”

“I can drop you off, old sport. You’re practically next door.”

“No, it’s alright. I need to see for myself if he’s okay.”

I could let them go. But half-blind with love, I make a rash decision. “I’ll come with you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter to a combination of Jack White's _Love Is Blindness_ and the Sucker Punch version of _Where Is My Mind_.
> 
> (Bit of trivia: the yellow speedster Jay drives in the movie is a 1929 Duesenberg. Which some critics insisted was periodically inaccurate because the story takes place in 1922, but I don't give a fart if you don't)

 

TONY

As I speed through the night with Rogers and Romanova in my trusty Duesenberg, I keep replaying the encounter with Loki in my head. Beautiful, dazzling. The same man whose ghost had tormented me for four years.

_I almost miss him as he glides past me like a vision in black and gold. When I grab his arm, he opens his exquisite lips – to say something cool and cutting, no doubt – and then his narrow eyes widen, and he goes very still.  
_

_Time trickles to a halt._

_“It’s good to see you again,” he says at last in a monotone._

_“It’s good to see you again, too,” I reply stupidly._

_And then our mouths are crushed against each other as the heat of lost years make of us mindless, lost creatures trying to find our way back through each other. I want to rip the sharply tailored funereal black off his lithe frame so I can taste the milky skin beneath. I am quite close to doing so, too, when he pulls away abruptly._

_“What’s the matter?”_

_“I can’t…” His eloquence fails him and he falters. “We can’t go on like this.”_

_“Why not?” I replied. “We’ve waited so long. I’ve waited long enough. Do I mean nothing to you now?”  
_

_“Would I have let your tongue into my mouth so eagerly if you meant nothing?” he says acidly. The sharpness of his tone doesn’t bother me; it’s the look in his eyes, the jaggedness of his irises where I’d expected to see only my own longing reflected back. “I moved on. I married. I’m Loki Odinson now.”_

_I see the accusing glint of a ring on his finger.  
_

_“Married – to Thor Odinson? That callous brute who calls himself a gentleman?”_

_“He was gentleman enough not to leave me when I most needed him.”_

_“_ Loki. _I…”_

 

How could I explain? My past had never been something I’d been proud of, and in the recent years it had only become more tarnished. Somewhere along the line I’d diverged from that shameful streak and covered my trails sufficiently to sculpt a new, shining, fantastical identity. One with an equally fantastical reputation that I was now obliged to live up to. But all of it meant nothing without the very person I wanted to shine for.

 

_“I should have written.”_

_“You should have left and never come back.” Then he is walking away. And like an idiot, I let him._

“You’re going to miss it. Turn left,” Natasha was telling me. I slow down and turn into the lane leading to the house I suddenly hated because it belonged to Thor.

“Please let him be here,” Steve murmured. 

The anxiety returned with full force. My fingers gripped the wheel. “And what if he’s not?” 

 

 

NATASHA

We pass through the darkened corridor that leads to the living room of the Odinson house. It seems unoccupied; Thor is away on business (with a side trip to Ms Long Island no doubt), and his fairer half is nowhere to be seen.

We shouldn’t even be in here. But the gate had been left carelessly unlocked. I imagine Loki tripping glassy-eyed through it, somehow still managing to look graceful in that irritating way of his, and landing on a sofa with limbs splayed bonelessly like an Aubrey Beardsley drawing. But he isn’t on any of the couches, or floors for that matter.

“Don’t mean to impose on anyone’s privacy, but should we check the bedroom?” Stark asks. It is unnerving to see him on such tenterhooks, this man in the cool suits. A man who shouldn’t lose his cool for such a proud and difficult creature as our Loki.

“Listen, Tony…thanks so much for your concern. I think we can take it from here.” I hold out my hand and force a smile. He takes it and is about to bestow his usual kiss, when suddenly he freezes and his hand turns to stone around mine. I follow his gaze over my shoulder.

The creature who stumbles toward us from behind the back door is just the way I imagined him. Except the glass in his eyes is shattered, and the limbs are stiff with rage.

 _“Get out of my house,”_ Loki hissed. He seems to stumble forward, but then catches himself and straightens into a lean paragon of composure – considering how inebriated he is. He turns away to retire to his room. I consider the drama over for the night.

Once again, I’m wrong.

Tony all but bounds after him and grabs his arm. “Do not turn your back on me twice in one night,” he says.

Steve steps forward to intervene. But some strange imperative – call it instinct, born of having known and loved and loathed Loki for so long – takes hold of me; I stop him. “No one is coming to harm,” I say. “Let them be. They’ve a lot to talk about.”

 

 

TONY

A soft wind rustles the gauzy curtains around us. One of them reaches out to brush the side of his face – the sharp visage that is still flawless save for a slight hollowness in the cheeks, a brittleness in the gaze. I want to touch that face so badly. Close the gap of four long years that had begun with an unsent letter and unspoken truths. 

I try my best. Amazingly, he lets me pull him into my arms. He lets me claim his lips after I’ve marked the planes of his face with my over-eager breath. But when I deepen the kiss, he remains cold. I know that when I withdraw he will be as unruffled as ever, lapels still in place, the eyebrows arched and infallible. 

But I don’t give up; not at first. I’ve come so far to get this close, and I don’t just want him. I hunger for him. With every cell of my body, I ache for his hands to slide up my shoulders and stay there. I want his head to slowly fall onto my chest and stay there and feel his lashes flutter as he closes his eyes so trustingly. Knowing I will never hurt him the way the world has hurt him. 

Except I had. I had hurt him, and in rash confusion he had given himself over to a loveless life that was slowly hardening his lips and turning from the light that had once made him radiant.

He is hardening now. And I know that it is futile.

 _I won’t give you up,_ I promise as I walk away.

I won’t turn out the light.

I won’t close my doors. Not if there’s a chance you’ll still walk through them.

 

 


End file.
